


Haymitch Abernathy: A Chronology of Loss

by Cryelle



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, District 12, F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8202979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryelle/pseuds/Cryelle
Summary: A series of short, backstory-related scenes that follow young Haymitch from the time he was Reaped to the a few years after the Games. Unnamed characters (including Haymitch's mother, brother, girlfriend, and mentor) are fleshed out and woven into his life -- only for him to lose each of them. Work in Progress, updated when I get the time.





	1. Forget Me

**Author's Note:**

> I just recently started playing Haymitch for an excellent RP storyline, and I'm writing these scenes to get a better sense of his headspace and flesh out his backstory (and District 12 in general!). Figured I should share them here, in case anyone is interested.

Haymitch's nails left half-moon tracks in his palms as he opened and closed his fists. The holding room had a cloying, cedary cleanliness to it that spoke of how little it was used, everything bright and unruffled. This is what he got for failing to worry. He'd been distracted, this year, too concerned with trying to catch Laurel's eye, trying to see if she was wearing the necklace he'd made her, a little chunk of [pyrite](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyrite) he'd chiseled into a rough heart-shape hung from a piece of twine. She'd grinned when he'd given it to her, kissed him on the cheek. _One day I'll give you real gold,_ he'd promised her. Stupid of him. Where had he gotten the nerve to promise her _anything_ , given how many times his name was in the damn bowl? 

The door opened, whispering on its oiled hinges, and there was Hasil, all bones and elbows in his arms, his face already greasy with tears. Haymitch forced down the bile that rose in his throat and hugged his brother tight, then knelt down to his eye level, brushing a flop of hair out of his still-leaking eyes. "You're gonna be the man of the house now, okay Has?" He shook his head over Hasil's protests, his wailing ( _No! Don't leave us_ ) even though it would ring that night in his ears. "You. You take care of Mama and if you need help, you ask for it, okay? You _ask_ , and people will help you." 

He hugged his mother one-handed, Hasil still clinging to his waist. "Don't you let him put his name in there any more times than he has to," he said, the quiver in his voice undermining its sternness, the tears in her eyes loosening his own. "You keep each other safe." 

Kisses, to both of them, and then they were gone. But there just time, just _barely_ time for Laurel, who slipped in under a Peacekeeper's arm and kissed him so hard he forgot, for a moment, to be afraid. She slipped something hard and shining into his hand. A gold bauble, almost a ring, with edges that jutted out like flame. "You deserve real gold," she whispered, hot and close in his ear. A bubble of grief swelled in him, straining at the confines of his chest. 

His fingers shook as he hooked them around her face. "Forget me," Haymitch he told her, his voice rickety. 

Laurel was practical, it was one the reasons he'd been so drawn to her in the first place. She understood that he wouldn't return. But now her eyes flashed at him, defiant. " _Never_ ," she hissed. "Never in a thousand years, Haymitch Abernathy." A Peacekeeper lunged for her, grabbed her by the shoulder, but Laurel was quick, and the heat of her mouth lingered on his for a few more seconds. Then, it was gone.


	2. That Boy Is Alive

"You need to buck up, kid. _Smile_ a little." 

Haymitch turned his eyes from the window and scowled Jethro. "Don't feel like it." 

Jethro sighed and sat down heavily next to Haymitch, grabbing his shoulder when Haymitch tried to turn away. He felt _small_ in Jethro's grasp, his shoulders lean and bony under his mentor's wide hands. Haymitch lifted his chin and glared, watched Jethro shake his head. "You think I don't _know_ that? You can sleep for two weeks _after_ the tour is over. For right now, you're working. So you _smile_. You make your speeches with the appropriate amount of--" 

"Humility and gratitude," Haymitch interrupted. "I _know._ You've _said._ " 

"And yet you sound like a wooden doll," Jethro snapped. "And you're not smiling." 

Haymitch's fist came down so hard against the window that the glass rattled. "What the fuck do I have to _smile_ about?" There was that tightness in his throat again, and he pawed, unconsciously, at his chest. "They're _dead_ Jethro. They're all--" 

"Snap _out_ of it Haymitch!" The roar in Jethro's voice, usually so calm, so quiet, silenced him. "You're smarter than this. You know why they do this. Yes, they're dead. But that doesn't _matter_ to them, and you act like it matters to you, you're not doing your job. It's the show. Just because you're out of the Arena doesn't mean you're off the hook for giving them a good show." 

Haymitch closed his eyes. Swallowed hard. "I can't. I can't do it." 

"You _can_. I know you can. You were _electric_ in the pre-Games. I know you can turn on the charm when you need to." 

"That was a different person." Haymitch opened his eyes, stared straight ahead. "That boy died." 

"No." Jethro's other hand cupped Haymitch's shoulder, but he was more gentle, this time, as he wheeled Haymitch around to face him. "That boy is _alive_. That boy made it back home. I know it doesn't feel that way right now. But you have to press through it. For your family. For Hasil, Haymitch. For Laurel. Do your job, and go back to them. Be alive." Two fingers held up the corner of Haymitch's lips. "And smile."


	3. To Adaptability, Mr. Abernathy

Haymitch moved unsteadily through the crowd, unused to the alcohol that warmed his limbs and flushed his cheeks. Jethro had been in charge of his drinks all night. "It's an _art_ ," he'd said to Diana, the thin-nosed, disapproving Escort. "He needs to be just drunk enough not to be _thinking_ quite so much, but not so drunk that he's belligerent and sloppy." 

So far, Jethro had gotten it just right. He felt almost relaxed, even in the itchy, ash-gray suit they'd forced him into, and it was late enough in the night that he'd even gotten away with surreptitiously loosening his tie. He'd done well. Even he could tell that, although it was far easier to credit the alcohol than Jethro's little pep talk. He smiled and small-talked, laughed at jokes, even cracked a few of his own. And he wasn't belligerent, not even a little. Even though he wanted to be, when he saw the jewel-laden citizens of the Capitol clacking off to the bathroom with their bottles of vomit-potion to make room for their second dinner. 

To be fair, there'd been one small act of rebellion, if it could even be called that: an hour ago, he'd talked to a woman with red lips and gold hair and had been genuinely transfixed her [brooch](http://www.braithwaitesgifts.co.uk/images/products/main/mb54.jpg), an intricate golden knot laden with diamonds and rubies. "I'm trying to memorize it," he'd explained to her. "My girl, back in Twelve, she'd love this. She'll want to know every detail." And because wealth meant nothing to these people, because this woman surely had a whole chestful of jewelry back home, it hadn't taken too many stories to get her to fold it into his hand, where he could nestle it into his pocket. Real gold. At least this was one promise he could keep. 

Somehow, Haymitch had managed to get to the balcony, away, for a moment, from the flurry of congratulations. He let the breeze bathe his cheeks in fresh air, tried to breathe in the scent from the garden below. Roses. Iron. "Mr. Abernathy?" 

Haymitch's skin prickled and he turned to face the President. "President Snow. It's an honor." 

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Abernathy, the honor is mine. How are you finding the Capitol?" 

"It's lovely, sir." A beat. Something in his eyes didn't quite align. "It's a little overwhelming though, to be honest." 

Snow chuckled. "Yes, I imagine so, for a boy like you. You're quite the sensation, you know. No one expected anyone from Twelve to even place. But you're smart, aren't you, Mr. Abernathy? Very... adaptable." 

Haymitch's palms had begun to sweat, and he took another sip of his cocktail. "That's our way, in Twelve," he said, never taking his eyes off the President. "We make do with what we have. With... with what we see." 

Snow's smile extended all the way up to his canines. "You certainly do. I never cease to be amazed at how quickly you adapt in the face of deprivation." He raised his glass. "To adaptability, Mr. Abernathy. I hope you continue to exercise the skill as well in the future as you did in the Quell." 

A tiny crease appeared in Haymitch's brow as he lifted his glass and touched it with Snow's. "To adaptability," he murmured, and drank.


	4. Real Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Character death, suicidal ideation, mild violence

A familiar warmth spread through Haymitch's chest as the train wove through the mountains. After so long in the wide-open prairie, the treetops closing above him felt like the embrace of home, even as exhaustion set into ever limb. He really _might_ sleep for two weeks, after this. The huge, plush mattress four-poster in his new bedroom was, by far, his favorite thing about the new house in Victor's Village, even if the space itself still felt wrong, too big. 

He pressed his face to the glass as the train began to slow, intending wave at his brother. But Hasil wasn't on the platform. No one was, except his friend Tucker Everdeen, his face dirt-streaked, eyes stricken. Haymitch didn't even grab his luggage before bolting out the door, fear sinking its fangs into his stomach. "Tuck! Where's--" 

"There was an accident." The other boy hands gripped his shoulders steadying him. He glanced around quickly, his voice low. "Yesterday, at the Hob. There... there was a Peacekeeper raid and Hasil-- they. They shot him, Haymitch. And when your mother screamed--" 

"No no no no no no," Haymitch swallowed a sob, his knees wobbling. He could tell by Tucker's eyes that _accident_ was just what they were calling it. "They _can't_ , I... I didn't everything I was supposed to, I--" 

"The burial's tomorrow. They waited for you--" 

His vision swam, the President's words ringing in his ears. _I hope you continue to exercise the skill as well in the future..._ Had he already given the order, when they spoke at the Victor's ball? Did he already know they were dead? "Laurel," he gasped, interrupting whatever comfort Tuck was murmuring. "Tuck. Where's Laurel?" 

Haymitch ran all the way to the merchant district, shouting at everyone to get out of his way. He still couldn't see clearly when he finally reached Laurel's door and he rubbed viciously at his eyes, failing to ebb the tears. He barely heard the protests and exclamations when he pushed his way into the house, cramped by too many bodies, but the tide parted for him, as if grief were a spell he'd cast all around himself. 

"Haymitch." Her voice was so soft, and he didn't bother to wrestle down the sob that crawled from his throat at the sight of her face, white as the sky before snow, her brow clammy with fever. "I knew you'd come." 

He knew by the blood soaked through the bedclothes that it was a miracle she'd held on this long. The house already smelled like death, antiseptic and pus and the iron twinge of blood. She'd waited for him. "Look," his voice shook, a sapling in a storm. "Look what I brought you from the Captiol." He took the brooch from his pocket and showed it to her. Its shine didn't seem half so bright, now. He slipped it between her fingers. "Real gold, Laurel. I. I told you I'd--" 

A spasm of a smile. "Don't you forget me, Haymitch Abernathy."

He kissed her forehead. God, it was already going cold. "Wait for me," he whispered, desperate. "I'll be with you tonight, just _wait_ \--" 

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, yanking him away and Haymitch yelped, struggled, and was thrown, suddenly, out the door, Laurel's father towering over him. " _You_ ," he blazed, kicking Haymitch hard in his still-tender stomach, making him cry out and curl up tighter. "This is _your_ fault. They never cared about the Hob before _you_." Haymitch could feel, more than see, the accusing finger leveled at him, and he tensed, ready for another blow.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" Haymitch slit his eyes open enough to see Tuck standing over him like a shield. "This won't solve anything. Go. Be with Laurel." 

"I never want to see your face around here again, Abernathy." A drop of spittle bloomed on Haymitch's shoulder, but he kept his head down, felt the slam of the door rattle through him.


	5. Have a Goddamn Drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Violence, suicide ideation

Haymitch's eyes were dry by the time he reached his new house, which loomed over him now, big and unfamiliar. He pushed open the unlocked door blinked in the low light, his lips drawn back in a snarl. "What are you doing here Jethro?" 

"Sit down." The other man slapped the empty couch cushion beside him. 

"No." Haymitch didn't move, didn't reach out to close the door. "Get out."

"If you really think you can move me, I invite you to try," Jethro said wryly, leaning his bulk a little deeper into the couch. He was easily the heaviest person in the District. "But in the meantime, I'm not going anywhere until you calm down." 

"I'm fine." He kicked the door closed and prowled over the the single valise that he'd abandoned on the train. He kicked that, too. "Just leave me alone." 

Jethro sighed. "Believe me, kid, I'd love to. But I can't do that until I'm convinced that you won't off yourself the second I let you out of my sight." 

"It doesn't _matter_!" Haymitch's voice broke out of him like a cloudburst, rising and shrill. He pounded his fists against the wall until his knuckles bled but didn't turn to look a Jethro, his whole body slamming into the wall now, as if the sheer force of his tiny, teenaged body could knock it down. "You were right, okay? Is that what you want to hear? You were _right_. I fucked up and I got them killed and now--" Haymitch fought the tug on his shoulders, he kicked and thrashed as Jethro pulled him away from the wall, wrestled him to the floor. pinned and headlocked. "Just let me go," he panted, finally letting his muscles go limp. "Jethro. Please." 

There was a kind of menace in Jethro's voice that Haymitch had never seen before as his mentor wrenched his head back. "You _listen_ to me. You think killing your family is the worst thing Snow can do to Twelve? Wake _up_ , kid. The Games don't work without a Victor. What do you think will happen to Twelve if the most successful one yet commits suicide?" 

A stone dropped into Haymitch's stomach. "But I _can't_ \--" He gritted his teeth as Jethro yanked his hair a little harder. 

" _Stop_ telling me that you can't. You _can_. You _will._ " Jethro let go, watching the boy's head fall forward, his shoulders crumpling. The mentor sighed, one of those long-suffering exhales that Haymitch had somehow already gotten used to. "Come on." 

Haymitch let himself be pulled up by the shoulders and shuffled over to the couch, too tired to fight anymore. Everything ached.

Jethro's voice was gentler now, as he settled his weight back onto the couch, and he reached out to the open bottle that Haymitch hadn't noticed and filled two glasses. "I really am sorry about what happened to them, Haymitch. It's horrifying. But if you want to make up for it even a little bit, you can start by not being so goddamn selfish. You're a mentor, now. It's your job to take care of your community." 

"You mean take them to the slaughter every year," he bit back.

"Yes. You'll do that because it's your job and it'll keep the Peacekeepers to a minimum." Jethro paused to sip his drink. "Like it or not, you're part of their machine now. Anyone else that you care about here, and I _know_ there are people that you care about, is only going to be protected as long as you shut up and do your damn job. That's all. That's all you have to do. Keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and do what you can for the kids every year. If you're real lucky and real smart," Jethro nudged him with his shoulder, "maybe one of 'em will come back alive." 

"That's worse," Haymitch said flatly. "Better for them to--" 

"Jesus, kid," Jethro groaned, pressing a glass of whiskey into his charge's hand. "Stop brooding and have a goddamn drink." 

"I don't _want_ a drink!" he cried, flinging the glass across the room, where it shattered spectacularly against the same wall where his blood was still drying. "I don't want any of this!" 

Jethro's face was impassive as he reached for another glass, though he filled his one slightly less. "Well man up, because you're stuck with this job now. Snow doesn't care what you want. What you _want_ is irrelevant. What you've _got_ ," this time Jethro kept his hand over Haymitch's as he shoved the glass into his hand, "is some good, strong whiskey. It's not a great solution, but it's the best thing I've come up with so far. Just don't do morphling, all right? It's expensive as hell and hard to get outside the Capitol and Career districts. Alcohol's more reliable." 

Haymitch stared down into the glass as if his future were stamped on the bottom, then he threw it all back in one gulp, the alcohol like coals in this throat. He coughed loudly, grimacing as Jethro pounded a few times on his back. "Now what?" 

"Now you drink the next one slower," Jethro said, pouring him another glass. "And you get used to it."


End file.
